Cracked Armor
by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: After a case reveals Hetty has been withholding information from Callen about who he is, Nell visits Callen. It's a sad fic in which G. Callen is almost irretrievably broken and Nell has no idea how to piece him back together. Tentatively complete until I can talk my muse back for a second part.


Nell hates Hetty.

Well, not completely.

It's not full blown hatred, yet. It's a little seed planted during their latest case, when it was revealed Hetty had been withholding information from Callen, and it had pushed through the soil of a misguided loyalty and sprouted a little more each time she thought about it.

Hetty _knew._

She knew every damn thing Callen should have been told and she made the choice to withhold that information on the grounds that it was best for Callen's mental health. But, _shit,_ there at the end, more than Callen's mental health had been at stake. His whole damn life had been on the line and Hetty had taken every immoral turn she could to keep her secrets vaulted away from his questioning. All because of one name.

Clara.

To be more specific, Clara Callen.

There was information on this case, the building case against the Comescus that could have given Callen the pieces, he desperately sought to be able to put together the past that plagued him. The past that had taken his identity, his child-hood. Everything. The past he knew so little about.

 _"You needed a clear mind, Agent."_

Hetty's sharp tone.

It had been brisk and brooked no arguments. It hadn't been long after that, that the senior agent exploded in a fit of anger, clearly hurting for the mother he never knew, and needing something, _anything_ , to put his life back together.

 _"I don't care, Hetty! Clara Callen was my mother. Mine. Not yours. You knew..."_ Nell still remembers the thickness of his voice, the fury tightening his entire body, and the coldness of his eyes. _"I needed my mother, Henrietta! I needed her and she wasn't there. She was dead. And I wonder who was behind that. The Comescus or you!"_

In a fit of something between rage and pain, G. Callen had stomped out of Ops, unwilling to hear anything of a redeeming nature Hetty might have conjured in a half-assed attempt to save herself. Unfortunately, it had left everyone in a pissy mood and getting out of there before every single line on every single page of paperwork was filled with information was damn near impossible.

But, here she was.

Facing the hard oak of his front door, waiting for him to open it, with a bottle of liquor in one hand and her bag slung over her shoulder. "Callen!" Nell calls, small fist beating the door. "Open up, it's Nell!"

"I'm fine, Jones!"

Oh.

Ouch.

"Hetty didn't send me." Nell sighs, leaning heavily against the door. "I came on my own. I came because you need a friend - because today was shit and I think I hate Hetty a little bit."

She fidgets uncomfortably, eyes shifting to the stone steps. She's not expecting him to open the door, much less let her in his home. Until she's staring at socked feet and when she looks up, she's staring into blue eyes.

Slightly swollen, and very red, bright blue eyes.

"Hey, G."

He's tense.

Pulled taut, muscles snapped forward in a stance that one might find in a crouched tiger, stalking its prey, waiting for the opportunity to kill. But, it's not like that. He's defensive, waiting for the offensive players to strike and take him out.

"N-Nell." His voice cracks, the natural register mixing with something octaves above it to give him a pre-pubescent sound.

Nell holds up the bottle of liquor - a cheap tequila, guaranteeing drunkenness but not quality or flavor. "My day was awful, how about yours?"

He doesn't manage a smile at her sympathy, doesn't even acknowledge it, just motions for her to come in and locks the door behind her. Callen leads her into his kitchen and pulls two shot glasses from a cabinet.

They're two shots in and slowly making themselves comfortable on his couch when the question pours from his mouth; "How'd you know where I live?"

"Sam."

Silence. Another shot.

"The team - ?" Callen doesn't look at her, focusing his gaze on his empty shot glass.

"Doesn't think anything less of you." Nell assures him, pouring another shot for each of them. "You were upset, G. They understand that."

More silence.

One shot.

"She betrayed me, Nell." his voice is quiet; blood and gravel. "I thought of her like a mother and she - she doesn't even respect that enough to tell me about my real mother."

"Clara?" Nell leaves her next shot on the coffee table.

"Yes." He's squeezing the shot glass, knuckles paling with the effort, and if he's hoping to crush it in relief of whatever pain he's feeling, she knows he's only going to end up bleeding and messy. "She was my mother. I needed her, Nell. I was only a kid. I didn't know she was CIA. I didn't care. I needed my mother and she - she wasn't there."

"You were a child, G." she scoots closer to him. He doesn't need physical comfort, yet, but just the stability of emotional support. Someone to be there, to be a constant in a world that seemed to be ripped out from under him, everytime he came close to piecing it together. "All you knew was that she was your entire world and when you needed her, she wasn't there. To find out years later that she was killed, that's rough."

"I hate her."

"Who?"

"Henrietta." Callen sneers.

He can't reconcile it.

The woman, who had practically raised him, and has shown compassion beyond what situations required and the woman who could have helped him put his past together, years ago. The woman who knew his mother, knew Clara Callen, and probably knew his name.

"You don't hate her." Nell shakes her head, even though she isn't exactly in Hetty's corner, right now. "You just can't reconcile the woman you know with the woman she used to be."

"She was like my mother, Nell." there they are. The tears. Filling his eyes, spilling over his lashes. "She saved me - saved my life more times than I...more than I deserved. And, this whole time - this whole damn time I've been with her, she's been lying to me. She knew my mother."

"You knew that." Nell shrugs, capping the bottle of tequila. "G, what's really bothering you? Hetty knew your mother. You already knew that. Why now? What's different about now?"

"The information Hetty wouldn't give me." Callen releases a deep breath, scrubbing his face with his hands before shifting his gaze over to Nell. "It was everything the CIA had on Clara's kids. On my sister, Amy, on - "

"On you." Nell breathes.

"On me." Callen nods. "I need that information, Nell. I need to know who I was, who my mother was. I need to know - I need to know why I feel like this."

"Like what?"

"So damn hurt and confused." he stands up from the couch and makes his way to the mantle, where what little he owns is tucked away in a box. "I miss a family, I didn't even know I had. I miss a mother, I don't remember. A sister I don't remember. A father, I never knew." His eyes burn. More tears, more wetness flooding his cheek and neck. "I don't even know who I am, Nell. Not anymore."

"G?" Nell's concern from him is morphing into sympathy.

"I needed my family, Nell. I was just a little boy." the wall he's build to protect himself is slowly cracking. Slowly crumbling. His shoulders shudder with each breath and he's struggling to hold it together. "Why wasn't Hetty there? Why couldn't she save my mother? Why, Nell?"

"I - I don't know, G." Nell's a little reluctant to touch him but he doesn't appear to want to murder anyone, so she thinks it's safe. "This isn't a string of code or a file for me to read off to you. I can't give you the answer you want."

"Then, come here."

He turns toward her, arms locking around her small frame. He doesn't waste a second burying his face in her shoulder, the soft cotton of her dress bunching against his cheeks. The tears fall and her small arms wrap around his back. He shudders against her, gasping every breath, as sobs wrack his entire body.

G. Callen is broken.

And, Nell Jones has no idea how to piece him back together.


End file.
